The house is a sea of clutter washed ashore. Lack of attention to essential domestic chores has resulted in piles. Piles of books and bicycle inner tubes and charcoal a feather, stones from a visit to the beach, scissors and a plastic chameleon that is hugging sunglasses and glue stick. Least its a house of fun and creativity.
Ten minutes and ten percent on the computer battery. I am writing this with my coat on as I am going to go to the Friendship support group today. There was no time for the group last week as I was filling in the form for the Breastfeeding Peer Support Co-ordinator job.
Its a beautiful day, no rain, a gentle light, more yellowing and tiredness in the leaves. I want to stick the leaves back onto the trees. I don’t really want the winter. Who wants winter? Winter here is long and dark and cold and wet and it hurts my bones and heart.
Naoise as usual would not wake to the day. Coaxing. Yoghurt. Lying on sofa. Slumping on chair. I was a little inpatient of him. He said I was rude. I said it was rude to be late. This worked. He put his coat on and came. We scooted to school and actually got into the doors just as the last bell was sounding.
Spoke to a couple of mums in the playground. Snatched conversations is all that we ever manage. Women are soldiers. Soldiers to exhaustion and care. Soldiers to juggling paid work with care work. Always a battle for health and wellbeing. Never a balance.
Connect. Give. Be Active. Take Notice. Keep Learning.
The five ways to well being. Be Active. That is always my tripping point. I need to run again.
I walked with friends yesterday, more a stumble really. We were all tired. Least we moved. We connected. We took notice. We gave by listening to each other, and we learnt from each others experience. All in a walk.
The oven buzzer sounds. Never enough time to really think. Beep beep beep. Must go. Walk along canal. Try and give to the group.
I am expecting Naoise to wake at any moment. I cannot believe he is still snoozing. Patrick is out buying eggs and bread and tea bags and coffee. He is annoyed that lidls no longer sells fair trade coffee.
Our heads are in fair trade world. We have to help Naoise with some homework today titled where in the world does food come from?
The homework is not our homework it is his but it feels like ours.
We will go out and try and find mushrooms. There are many this year the long warm autumn must be good for fungus breading.
I have a hangover, I probably shouldn’t have drunk the bacardi and coke on top of the red wine and white wine.
We women all sat on the soggy leather sofas and talked. I am so lucky to have such wonderful women in my life. I love womens company. I long for it. I am outnumbered in my family of men, man/boy and boy. The cat used to provide some female company.
I went home last night with happy memories, more bars of green and black chocolate, candle sticks an orchid, a broach in the shape of a bird and a beautiful skirt with Frida Khalo’s face on it. What a lucky woman I am. Life is rich when you have good friends. Connection. Connection
Patrick is back, he shouts up the stairs tea or coffee ?
Syd is at his dads. Its quiet in the house. Just the sound of cars slipping on the road. Sunday.
Time slipping. This is my idea of a good Sunday. Sunday is the day of rest.
Naoise and Patrick watching cities of gold. Naoise reminds me that the incas are even older than me!
The dinner is cooking in the pan. Just enough time to type this before I need to put the spaghetti on. Its been a perfectly lonely day with Naoise. I have spent many lonely days with children. There is nothing different about this one.
Naoise made a friend in the park. I stared into space and managed one conversation with a stranger who rebuffed me and one with an x work colleague of Patricks. I was in a strange park. Shibden Park Strange.
I wrote some notes in the park on my smart phone. I don’t have much time for this. My lonely day is about to end. I am going out with my favourite local women mother friends. We will have fun.
Breastfeeding woman and toddler. The crocheted bonnet slips over the babies face and the baby is not happy. The baby is crying, the mother is oblivious. I point out to her that the hat is over the babies eyes. She is juggling a two year old as well as her new born. Wow what a lot of work. She does not want to talk to me, even when I pay the crocheted hat compliments. She looks at me with suspicion. I have a child, I have a scooter in my hand, I am not strange. She has no time to chat with me.
She breast feeds her baby on the bench.
Loneliness in the park, scooters, bikes, grey overcast sky and yellow ochre. Darkening time. Halloween. The aisles of the supermarket are full of plastic tat, glow up wands, pumpkins that sing, witches outfits, glitter, slime, purple and orange and lime. A child in the park has a plastic zombie mask. It is scary.
Naoise makes a friend with a child who is seven and a whole head size bigger than him. Naoise cannot wait to be seven, he is counting down the months. He tells the seven year old boy how many months he has to wait to be a magic seven.
I got one rejection email from the interview I went to, but I got another job application in, I hope I get another interview, I want this job, I need this job, it has my name written on it. This job would save us from Saturday arguments. It would save us from blaming each other for the house looking a mess and the lack of money. It takes all my effort to apply for jobs. There is mess. Mess is a consequence.
My friend saved me this month. My dear friend saved me. I will make her the most beautiful piece of art work that I can to thank her for her generosity. Blue it needs to be blue. Blue and beautiful and bodily.
Leaves tumble. Naoise goes up the slide again and again. Its a shelter skelter slide. He climbs on the frame and looks through periscopes that are clouded and reveal nothing.
We make our way home up the steep bank. Naoise wants to stay and slide down tarmac slopes on his scooter at dizzying speeds. He scooters so fast that his scooter sways dangerously out of control he smiles and I grimace with anxiety and marks furrows in my forehead.
I beg Naoise to come home. I turn my back on him and walk up the grass bank. He calls my name, at first I ignore him, I think he is being difficult but in fact he has found a leaf to show me, look mummy its so big. He makes me smile, I feel guilty that I thought he was misbehaving. The leaf is the same shade as his new jacket. He needed a new jacket. I found the cheapest warmest supermarket one. Its perfect. He loves it. Small boys are easily pleased.
I must get ready to go out. Perhaps some tights, some lipstick. perhaps a dress. Its cold out. The stars will be visible. I have little energy but I will find it. The cold will wake me. My friends and the beer will comfort me. The turning season is welcoming the winter.
He is at home, lying on the sofa. He has pulled a ligament in his foot playing football. Being on crutches is so boring. It requires great patience from him and me. I help him into the bath. Its tricky. Water and hopping and balancing. We take great care. We learn how to negotiate the poorly foot the crutches and the bath.
The washing machine turns a load of my friends clothes. It works hard. I love my machine, it never complains, it is always reliable, it does not mind dirt, and the sound of the machine comforts me. A clock to cleanliness.
At the breakfast table Naoise delighted in the letter shaped candles. Picking up the ones that had burnt down, admiring the letters that had survived, those that had remained intact. You can only burn them once, he tells me
Naoise is slow. So slow to wake. So slow to eat. So slow to write. So slow to draw. So slow to realise that we have to get to school on time.
I enjoyed parents evening. Looking through his books, beautiful drawings of animals. A chick and some cheese. Cows. Pigs. He takes great pride in his work.
The teacher talks about him being slow. Not slow of mind. Slow of action. Slow in writing. Slow in drawing, reaching for the rubber, trying to be perfect. Anxious. Slow. Slow at getting dressed. Slow at eating. Determined. Independent. Good at maths Anxious about getting things right. Slow. Great vocabulary. Slow.
I am happy he is slow. We rush around in this world. Maybe it is good to go gently, to be slow. Slow. Naoise I love your slowness as much as I find it frustrating and hard work.
I believe going slow is good. Slow down. Don’t rush. Be careful. Be happy, be content with slow.
The teacher knows my child well, she is positive and pleased with him and she does not want to pressurise him. She knows him. She tells us things that we know. Knowledge. It is comforting to share what we know of our child.
I read the article on Motherhood in art. Its great. Another book for the wish list.
I cannot really concentrate Syd is listening to a programme. Its hard to switch off from him. Its hard to ignore his presence. The movement of body on the sofa the sound of the narrator in the programme.
P made me a beautiful cake for my birthday. I am sitting in front of flowers and chocolates and cards. I had messages of love from my friends. Life is good. I cried when the candles on my cake were lit.Tears of joy. I love birthdays. Life is for celebrating. Birth is for celebrating. The candles always take me back. I am a girl. A child of five and the whole of life is reaching out magically in front of me. I am still that child, seeing out but behind the skin of a woman, a mother, eyes of middle age. Looking forward and looking back. In the middle. The middle is a good place to be. No beginning, no end, the middle of a sentence. The Now.
Sound. I have to stop. No more to say, no ability to think.
Too tired to sit upright. Eyes, head numb. Numb as if I had been drained from feeding a new born through the night.
Tired because I spent four and a half hours in A&E with Syd and a suspected broken foot. Football and feet. Feet and football. Boys and balls and accidents.
This was my second visit to A&E this week, least the magazine selection has improved. I loved the escapism of Harpers Bazaar, luxurious clothes. Pages of them.
Dolce & Gabanna have beaten me to it with their Mamma Fall collection. Silk dresses made up from children’s drawings. Never mind. I can still make something. Mine with be naughtier. More wearable fine art than fashion.
Women with young babies pacing corridors. Families. Blood. Bandages. A receptionist that was so much more than a receptionist. I saw her finding wheelchairs for ambulance men, clearing up drink spills, directing lost patients, and she was blessed with the task of telling us that we all had longer than ever to wait.
Wait be very patient this is the NHS of austerity. I can see it falling apart in front of me. Not enough staff, too many patients. Wait. Wait. Our beautiful NHS. I am patient. I want to kiss it better. The woman sitting next to me gets on my nerves she thinks its slow because the staff are chatting. I feel like ranting at her but I decide not to waste my energy and just grunt back at her instead.
A young girl does the splits.
The woman with her epileptic son decides to leave. She gives up on seeking care in the early hours. We wait.
The fracture doctor who reminds me of Tubaka eventually calls Syds name. Syd is slumped in the wheelchair deep in sleep. I rouse him as I wheel him down the corridor. I marvel at the spectacle of Syds beautiful bones made visible by the X-ray. The doctor cannot find anything, least he cannot find a break at two in the morning. He is unsure. There might be a break, we might get a phone call tomorrow, or it could be a torn ligament. Either way we leave with crutches and days of elevating a foot and of being able to do nothing.
Hop. Hop. Hop.
I drive home singing to radio 2 songs, U2 wild horses, its all pretty dreadful sludge. I sing to keep myself from slumber. There are no cars on the road, all the valley are sleeping.
Sleepy Valley.
Home. Negotiate stairs after staring at stars. Tuck syd in bed. Watch hunted, drink cider, eat chocolate and wish myself a happy birthday. I will postpone celebrations for another day.
I need to sleep. Least Naoise was good today, we weren’t late. There are roses to smile at, owl earings, hand cream and soap. A fungus colour chart. Mum bought me a handbag. I have never before owned a handbag. It smells lovely and leathery. Its a funny grown up woman of a present. I like it.
I am lucky. I am here. I am born, and the stars must have aligned because I got my period today as well!. Too much information, probably.
Its good. Two boys. Two boys to structure my life. Bad writing, must stop and sleep.
I decided against a walk today, my back is aching. Its a ridiculous injury, I was stupid and gave P a hand up to help him climb a tree.
We were fashionably late today. I tried hard to coax Naoise out of his sleep. I got him dressed around seven, he was asleep as I was doing so. I tucked him back in. I tried waking him again at eight, then twenty past, then half past. I carried him gently down the stairs at twenty to nine. He was still in a deep slumber. I placed him on the sofa. I tried to rouse him with warm breakfast milk and talk of cereal. He lay still. I talked to him about the fact that we were running late, but my protestations fall on death ears.
I try to remain calm and not get anxious. I don’t think that this situation has anything to do with a lack of respect for me or for getting to school on time. This is to do with exhaustion. He is genuinely tired in the morning. Lacking in impetus and lacking in urgency. I got up at six this morning. Its nothing to do with lack of care. Its nothing to do with not trying.
Still it makes me anxious. I hate being late. I am sure that I am being judged on the quality of my parenting by my ineptitude to get Naoise to school on time. I hope not.
I forget to look right at the dangerous crossing near the railway arches. Fortunately, I just manage to spot the car that hasn’t seen us trying to cross art the last moment. I just forgot. In my rush to get to school on time I forgot to look, the most basic of actions The most basic of care.
We cross safely. I love scooting alongside Naoise. He delights in touching my hand and saying Ma Ma, Ma, Ma; hello baby I reply. Its fun to regress.
The lolly pop man can see that I am anxious. I remark that N does not seem to understand what late even means. You are here and that is the main thing he replies. Yes we are here we are present, we have arrived.
I see the caretaker and ask him if he can leave the front gate open just a little longer so that I can exit via the lower path. He jangles a bunch of keys and smiles. I press the buzzer on the main entrance to be let in. I do feel shameful. I probably should not, but I do. Schools appreciate a parent that follows structure and rules not a parent that seems lasse fair. If you are late though, you might as well be properly calmly nonchalantly late.
Naoise grabs my hand. His hand is small and warm and soft to the hold. I love holding his hand. Is Naoise protecting me offering me support or is it the other way around. He brings me comfort. He proudly shows me his picture displayed on the wall on the way down the stairs. Its a picture of us his Famlee, and it states that his favourite thing is Seein my Famlee. I gush with love and pride and oh maybe sentimentality at this image. I love that we are gods to him. We all adore our Naoise. He brings hope and light to all our lives. He holds my hand. He holds me in the now. He is the present.
I walk back along the canal path. On the way I look for exciting things to photograph. I see a bubble break the surface of the brown water, a fish breathing gasping air, making concentric circles as it dives back down into the muddy gloom. This incident is too quick to capture on my smart phone camera. Can’t capture and record everything. Every thought. There needs to be some section process.
The light is dull today, no magic in its grey. Walking under the railway bridge I am struck by the cooing of the pigeons. The cooing is soothing, loud, urgent. I notice feathers. Pigeon feathers. What looks like a violent struggle, blood, no body. Seeing death. Seeing blood. Seeing the fragility of life.
Every morning Naoise sneezes before school. A violent sneeze. I have a roll of toilet paper that sits on the table at the ready. I can preempt this action.
I had to persuade Naoise to brush his teeth this morning, its probably not that great to persuade him with horror stories of fillings and injections, perhaps a star chart and a sticker would more appropriate. I am all out of imagination and creativity though. I cannot always think on my feet. Persuasion. Need to work on persuasion.
When I get home I take off my heavy walking boots, boil the kettle make a cup of tar coffee. Think about the word coax, care, and notice the bowl of soggy cereal lying redundant on the table.
What is this project about? Can I reduce it down? Can I speak clearly? Its about me. Its about me and my children. Its about me and my family. Its about raising sons. Duality. Time. Fragility. An urgency to record. To share. To understand.
To persuade myself of the value of care. To persuade my doubting, vulnerable, unsure self of the value of making art. To help support a practice that may/may not help with my health and wellbeing.
Coaxing myself. Caring. Its about temporality. Seeing time slipping, passing and grasping on. Holding. Holding tight to my youngest child’s hand. Not wanting his firm grasp to slip from mine. Holding tight to the beautiful hugs that my teenage son gifts me with each morning. Holding on to these tender moments of joy amidst what feels messy , out of control, a pot without a handle. I am pouring a cup of mothering and sharing it with you.
Words can have magnitude and motivation for an artist. Words can bring comfort when you are feeling fragile.
I have desire and momentum and ideas and spirit. I have feet. I have a path. It is the economics of art that are failing me. The economics of care that are failing me. I cannot find a way to make it work. I can never find a balance. Juggling all these roles, art, caring for my family, finding paid work, keeping up with house work there is never a clear way though. Its all a big mess. Where is the order?
Making art is messy. Mothering is messy. My house is definitely messy.
Why is it that I find the making of money repugnant?
I am failing myself.
I have to find a way to make creativity equate to money. There is no other way. I need to survive. If I can survive perhaps I will flourish my family with flourish. Perhaps I will be happier.
I am me but my family are dependent on me. We are not four individuals we are a collective. Two adults. Two children. Woman. Man. Boy/man and boy.
I don’t want to sell nursery rhymes back to parents or art back to families that can do it for themselves, or pixels of money space. I have a problem with the currency and the market, but I have to engage with it to survive. I only survive because I am dependent on P and this relationship of financial dependence is very problematic. I cannot rest. I cannot except it. It is not enough.
See, I would happily sell my work if I could find a buyer? I have made work that is unsellable. Too personal, too edgy and spiky and challenging. Perhaps too scary, but I cannot be anything other than me. Me that makes art about the human condition, identity, what it is to be a woman, a mother, an artist. Is it mother or is it parenting. What is the right way forward. Gendered or non gendered? Biology does not define the parent.
So how do I package me and my art? How do I make art a product? With no money its impossible to do even this. Chicken. Egg.
Crowd funding/ Is this the way? Any funding?
I can’t afford to print out my work and my studio lies unused and empty of activity because all of my energy is being driven into finding a job. Any job will do, any job that fits around the family, care work, house work, art work. Maybe this job does not exist. I need to face reality. There is so much opposition, so many barriers. I probably am my own worst enemy. I thought about dropping the art then I could stop feeling stressed because I am not managing to make any…….the pram in the hall is haunting me.
Do I really have to forget the past ,all of my achievements, all of my knowledge? Can I repackage myself as something else? Another role? I do have value. Why does every essential criteria ask for a GCSE grade C in maths? Do I really have to resist maths to get the most basic of jobs? Can I convince myself? Where do you find self belief?
I believe that I am an artist and I can’t help but follow this path. I have tired to put it to bed, but I cannot. Its in my bones and blood.
I need to grow up though don’t I. I need to be adult. Learn to function in the adult world. Desire is all very well, but I still need to function and live and feed my family, buy food, cloth the children and pay my bills.
Art, I think you have defeated me.
I need to get some advice about funding. How can I develop a practice when so much is stacked against me? How silly this must all sound. Is there empathy? I need to be creative. I need to act instead of moaning.
The windmills on the moor turn slowly but the year speeds past, it is drawing in. All life is fading, wilting, shedding, drying. The sleepy child is slowly being put to bed.
I walk. I decide to walk rather than return home straight away. I see grass growing through a metal grid. The grass is unpredictable. The metal is firm and solid and straight. Which is wilder? Nature knows no friend. It is cruel. I take delight in the shiny shit of sheep droppings glistening in the sun, the fox glove skeletons shrivelling to brown.
Yesterday afternoon…..
I took my friend to A&E. Taking my friend to A&E meant that I couldn’t complete the job application. Taking a friend to A&E was more important. Care.
Care comes first. I cannot ignore the blood. The red spells danger. The blood reminds us of our fragility. Blood that spills crimson, then dries and turns to rust. We are bone and blood and flesh.
We are all scared. We all run away and we all run to each other for comfort. I am always running. Always running away. You cannot run away forever. I have to confront this life head on or it will run away from me.
Naoise was so good he drew a picture, listened to stories, read blood pressure results, helped navigate the confusing hospital corridors, collected prescriptions and pushed lift buttons and wheelchairs. I listened, offered sympathy and was a taxi service. I was glad that I had good reading material with me. My friend in Somerset kindly sent me a copy of the Project Afterbirthcatalogue that she picked up for me at the exhibition opening. I read it cover to cover, intrigued by all the art and artists in the show. Such brilliant emotive and relevant subject matter. SO NOW and of the Moment.
Last night (12/10/15)
Naoise front tooth fell out. It had been wobbling and wiggling precariously for a while. It fell out as he blew raspberries on my lower back. He blew raspberries until my skin was soaked. He giggled and giggled. He blew raspberries until his front tooth fell out into his hand, and he was aghast.
Such a momentous moment. Two front teeth. Two baby teeth. Two adult teeth. Two pillars to last a lifetime. Now he has a fleshy gap. His whole face is changed by its absence.
I pretend to be the fairy. Phewie, I remember to be the fairy. Stealing back the tooth that temporarily stayed fixed to gum for six and a half years. Its a mile stone.
Monday morning school run was a triumphant success. Getting up at 6.15am seems to be the key. The early I get up the more girl guide and prepared I can be for any eventuality. I was late five consecutive days last week, now that is really pushing the realms of bad mum and you know parents evening is this week, better make an effort…Today me and Naoise even had time to chase each other around the playground on our scooters. I forgot to brush his hair but hey we had time to play, much more fun.
<ahhhh suddenly remember I left a scooter outside the side entrance, the kindly receptionist is placing it somewhere safe….phew>
I am such a dizzy head at the moment. Too much going on. I put the shampoo and conditioner away in the fridge this morning much to Naoise hilarity. I have early onset dementia or I am juggling too many thoughts in my head,either way I haven’t poured shampoo into my tea yet!
I hurt my back pulling P up a tree that we were climbing. What a stupid thing to do. I am now on constant pain killers to tame the nagging.
Its very cold today and more leaves are falling. The heather on the hill has turned to rust. The green of moor and tree is becoming yellow ochre. There are spiders webs everywhere, silk dripping with dew. The light is mellow and dappling, there is blue in the sky.
I have to write another job application today. I would rather be attending the friendship group, swapping stories, drinking cheap tea, eating cake, but I have to stay at home. I cannot split and divide my time into such small pieces of cake that there is no time to do or achieve anything.I haven’t made it into the studio all term. I have had to focus on job hunting. Without a job the studio is not a possibility. I need money at least to sustain the children and the house and I need money at least to sustain a practice. I have so many projects that I would like to realise physically but instead they remain pixels. Pixels wanting to be printed. Words wanting to be made into books.
On the table in front of me, a hat, a green plastic box containing soap, leaves collected from the peoples park in halifax. A colour note to myself yellow ochre and mauve. I love this combination. I want to draw and paint and make. I want to get a job so I can concentrate on art and the children and not have to worry and stress over money and debt all the time.
Syd said thanks for making his breakfast this morning. He kissed me good day. I had a kiss from S a kiss from P and a kiss from N today. There might not be a lot of money but there is love, always love. Its never perfect, its far from perfect, its just mucking in and getting on and hoping that life gets easier or at least different.
I will wait to hear back about the job interview I went to, I have convinced myself that I was unsuccessful, this way I am never disappointed. If you expect nothing then you will be constantly surprised, pleased and satisfied. I have moved on already. I need to concentrate my efforts on the other job, the other form filling and bureaucracy.
Driving home, Aretha Franklin Let it Be played on the radio. P said I should listen to the Sesame Street version, Letter B.
Without children, time spent talking about children. Doing things that we usually do with our children. Time is slow. Time to read and think and not speak and relax. Mainly time to think. To trace a thought or idea from beginning to end. Time not to be pulled in three different directions. Time just to be.
When I got home, mum shattered, one cup of tea, said goodbye and thanks, won’t see her until early December now. Sad.
Its the middle of the night. Not today, yesterday or tomorrow. I am awake and its the early morning. Are you confused? I am.
I spent the day at The Healthy Minds Parenting and Mental Health Conference in Halifax. I listened and learned lots and sat with friends and drank too much instant coffee from little sachets. I struggled to read a schedule. I placed leaflets and postcards on a table that were largely ignored. One was used as a fan. I felt frustrated that I had offered to talk but my offer was refused. I felt that my voice had been curtailed. I was glad to be a part of the day but it was a lost opportunity to communicate and disseminate my knowledge to others. There were not any opportunities for formal networking. This critical approach perhaps will backfire. I was very glad to be a part of the day, but I would have loved to have been able to give more and articulate my thoughts to the audience. See how I focus on the negative and struggle to find the positive. See how I probably mess things ups for myself. I am thankful, I am grateful. I just want to be HEARD as well as doing the listening, the politeness.
I enjoyed most of the talks. One was very patronising which talked about cultural difference. The white middle class woman wore asian clothes, the asian woman wore western clothes. The middle class woman had a platform and spoke but the asian woman was not allowed to speak. She was a silent witness to the middle class womans lecture. The middle class woman talked about blame and then blamed the whole room for not engaging with hard to reach audiences. This was all very irritating and at times distressing. I learnt how not to present a presentation. How a message needs to be clear and concise.
Mum is here to visit. I feel bad as I collapsed t sleep in bed with Naoise around nine. I was simply exhausted. I had struggled to follow the schedule of the conference and had spent a long lunch hour sat on a bench in the sunshine in the peoples park . I watched an asian woman with her daughter chasing the leaves and the path. I sat on one bench amongst many empty ones, watching the colour in the trees and observing the gentle autumn light. I spoke to a friend on the phone and we talked about life and work. I spoke to P on the phone and I told him about the conference.
Mum is sleeping in the middle bedroom. Its good to have her here in my home. I drank wine with mum. I was naughty and perhaps began drinking wine with mum too early in the evening which was why I read myself to sleep reading the sleep book in bed to Naoise.
I enjoyed lying in Syds bunk bed listening to him playing guitar. I was proud to hear him explaining world war one history to me and taking great pride in his work. He loved showing us what he had been doing and achieving. Naoise tried to spoil his spotlight by continuously throwing an empty toothpaste packet up in the air.
Mum is sleeping in the middle bedroom and I am awake. I needed to write M(other) Stories. Mum is looking after the children for a night so that me and P can have some time together today. We are going to spend a night in a YHA in the lakes. Its a bargin of a get away. Its been three and a half years since we had a night away together and one and a half years since we spent a day together. Its my mums gift to me for my birthday. I have the gift of time. She has the gift of time with my children.
Listening. Empathising. Listening. Talking. Asking questions. Giving back. Its not all about me.
The conference was predominately female. Women dominate the caring professions, so this was no surprise. There are always counter stories that remain until. There is always the (other). Mens mental health issues were largely untouched. I would have loved to hear a dads story. Dads surely suffer from mental health problems too?
The talk about PND and dopomine and oxytocin and how to help levels of these hormones to be released through appropriate care and CBT was interesting. I prefer the anecdotal to the science. There was a good talk by the Mental Health Foundation and they touched on a project called Young mums together. It was good to hear about the effectiveness of peer support groups and self help.
This project is about self help. Its about locating coping strategies, its about targeting my progress throughout the year, its about watching the seasons change, my children grow, its about not loosing site of the value of mothering and maintenance and care. Its about finding me within the mother. Its about mental health and parenting. Its about unpicking the I between the sludge and the drudge of domesticity and parenting. Its about seeing how my experiences can be used to empathise with others, to be creative, to find solutions to living a more joyous life. Its about acknowledging that there are too many ideals and social pressures placed on parents. That parents need support and the right kind of help so that they can manage and enjoy their children. I see in all of this research that there is room for a mental health project around journaling and M(other) Stories. I need to articulate the project that I see. I need to make M(other) Stories a clear and assessable participatory projects for the others.
Mum is sleeping above me as I write. I need to go back to sleep. This emptying of thoughts will hopefully help. Its not all about me. first hand experience is important but it is possible to empathise with others over situations that you have no prior life experience of. Is this possible? How far does empathy stretch? What are the parameters of compassion, kindness and understanding? How do we decrease stigma in relation to mental health? How do we reduce feelings and shame and anxiety? How do we stop hiding and start talking openly? What are the problems with being open?
Need to sleep so that I can enjoy my time with P and get up in a few hours time. I hope that I can sleep now! This is not all about me. Honest.
The back door is open and the birds are singing their hearts out on this glorious sunny autumn day. My index finger is covered in a plaster which is irritating me as I type. The cars swish past on the main road.
Returning from school I carry the two scooters and I see two herons gliding heavily above the canal. The pigeons on the roosting above the railway bridge are silhouetted by the sun. The bulldozers are demolishing the local nursery to make a flood defence. Its my friends nursery, its sad to see the calamity.
I am a perpetually late parent. Naoise won’t go to sleep early so Naoise won’t wake early for school. Last night was a good in-ings as both boys dropped off to sleep which meant that me and P actually got to do a little work together and watch some mindless television.
I made Naoise a french breakfast, hot chocolate and baguette. The house is in chaos. The chaos ensues the more “outside” the domestic my work becomes. Plates and bowls are left for me to clear up. The family have got used to the luxury of dumping domesticity on my shoulders and shirking their responsibilities as they know that I am at home so just expect magic mum cleaner to wave her wand.
Syd was a very grumpy teenager this morning and I slipped into a ridiculous argument about sandwich contents with him. He moans on about having sandwiches but it is the only way for our family, school lunches are very expensive on a daily basis. I allow him one blast out on a friday when I gve him money for school brunch and dinner.
I am distracted by a red postoffice card, I will have to nip down and collect the mysterious package, probably a free poster from the open university but it might be more exciting than that.
Its national poetry day. Radio 4 have chosen a dubious theme about britishness. I was relieved however that the first poem by Carol Anne Duffy was not at all patriotic as the theme supposes. What is all this trending of britishness, it makes me want to cringe. We are a little island floating in the sea and there is a big world out there beyond our coast lines. All this inward talk.
I scootered alongside Naoise it is by far the quickest and most efficient way to get to school. We did almost collide, that is always a danger, but we both travel with smiles on our faces and people grin at our spectacle.
I was late. I had to escort Naoise to the classroom. I had to tell the teaching assistant that Naoise was being collected by my dear friend. I felt bad that I was disrupting the beginning of the day. However hard I try we are always late.
Late means finding the gate padlocked and then having to interrupt the care taker from his sneaky cigarette in the car park. Late means constantly feeling like you are running behind the main crowd. Late means that I was’nt able to take the images of the leaves on the tarmac of the playgound. The leaves obscuring the patterns and marks of defined play. I am sure that these marks are mostly ignored and the partial obscuring won’t worry anyone.
The bruise on Naoise thigh from falling on the tarmac playing football has been changing hue each day. Must record. Must remember a shot of his bruised skin together with the leaves obscuring the patterns on the tarmac.
Mum rings to tell me stories about mice in her house in Scotland and having to remove a dead sheep from a road. Time ticking by. Washing up to do. Space to clear. Stop.
